One Wrong Step
by elissa27
Summary: On the Alaskan battlefront, Charon contemplates a subservient life.


One wrong step. That would be all it took. The field in front of him was mottled with hastily buried fragmentation mines, scattered in so many different directions that all it would take is one clumsy, off-guard step to end this eternity of servitude. Maybe that wasn't so bad.

Charon knelt down in a relatively safe space and pulled out a pair of binoculars. He scanned the area, looking for Chinese soldiers. One hid slightly behind a rock. It clearly had not noticed him yet. Charon drew a breath. He laid down his binoculars and adjusted his hat, trying to gain the nerve to kill this man. He picked his sniper rifle back up and scoped him out. There was only a small chance his shot would hit. If he missed, he could alert the Chinese to his presence. To avoid massacre, he'd have to run back to the base, leading them there.

He sighed. There was no turning back. His employer had ordered him on this reconnaissance mission alone, specifically telling him to kill as many Chinese as he could before daybreak. If he did not take this shot he would be disobeying a directive. He raised the gun and took aim. The Alaskan night sky was alight for a moment from the blast. A startling crack broke the silence. Charon lowered his gun and pulled his binoculars back out. He saw rock the soldier was taking cover behind, splattered in gore. He had gotten his kill. Charon sat down with his legs splayed messily like a child. He took off his arctic camouflage hat and scratched his red hair, then looked at the army issue cap and smirked. He wasn't built for the military. He was an artist. A goddamned painter. And now he had just painted that rock with another human being's blood. He picked at the Velcro strip with his name on it.

'Charon' it read. He laughed out loud, filling the silence with his rich, tenor voice. He was Private First Class Charon. His memory was foggy as he tried to remember his first name. All he could remember being called is Charon.

His tent mates all had pictures of family, friends, and girls hung along their areas of the tent. He had nothing. The only person in his life was Lieutenant General Simmons, his executive officer and employer.  
_What kind of existence is this? _He thought in remorse. To be bound by contract to one person to the rest of your life. He was not permitted to speak to anyone else. The other commanding officers watched him with curiosity and apprehension. It wasn't a messy life, that's for sure. There were no loose ends, no ambiguity. He was to follow orders. Period.

_Charon, _he thought. The ferryman of the river Styx, ferrying dead souls to the underworld. He nodded in silent understanding. That was his duty, to send them to hell. He stood, dusting the snow from his uniform. He scanned his perimeters again and looked at the nearest mine. He had half a mind to stomp it as hard as he could. To jump up and down on it until he obliterated it and himself.

He began to stalk toward the Chinese base again. He glanced up at the sky. It was dark, ribboned with stars. The early light was just beginning to show, fading into the dark horizon. He made it past the mine field and had just approached the soldier he'd shot when the sun began to rise. He knew it was time to return. He had to do one thing first, or he'd never forgive himself.

He scraped the blood and brain matter from the rock with his hand, giving it no second thought. Using a handful of snow, he washed the rock clean. Then he began to dig. He made a large hole in the ice and snow. Charon dragged the soldier into the makeshift grave. He covered the man back up, and stood to walk away. After a moment of silence, he knelt back down and wrote something in the snow with his finger, then left for the American base.

By the time the Chinese made it to the dead soldier, Charon was already back at his base giving his employer a full debriefing and taking a beating for not fulfilling his instructions. The Chinese called an interpreter over to the grave. He looked at the writing for a moment, and then turned to his comrades, reading the inscription to them in Chinese.

'May God have mercy on my soul.'


End file.
